


Waterloo

by simply_kim



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical References, Inspired by Real Events, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simply_kim/pseuds/simply_kim
Summary: He pulled the reins of his horse and stared, dumbfounded. The drums weren't playing their hymn. The blue of the uniforms approaching them from behind were not the same shade as their own. The flag being flown was not theirs.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

**Waterloo**

_01: Naiveté_

* * *

**FOR THE GLORY OF THE KINGDOM**.

It was the one thing he could see everywhere – from the newspapers to the haphazardly-drawn flyers being distributed in the town square.

"Please get one, sir!" Said a blue-eyed boy cheerfully, eyes shining with such hope that it hurt to stare. Smiling, he ruffled the boy's blonde locks and turned his eyes away, focusing on the top of his head instead. With a soft murmur of thanks, he walked away, slowly as if dazed, toward the palace where his lord lived.

A frown touched his forehead as he pushed the iron gates open.

He was becoming increasingly worried, seeing how erratic his lord's behaviour was becoming. At night, he could hear him talking on and on in his chambers, devoid of an audience, but still firm and vigorous. The litany consisted of his hatred, his uplifting of his country's status as an empire, how infallible he was.

All those things were difficult to digest, difficult to prove, but somehow, something inside him compelled him to do whatever it was his lord asked.

Without question.

With hope.

With patriotic pride.

After the horror of the revolution, after the bitter cold he experienced in Moscow, still feeling the last vestiges of hunger in his stomach, and still reeling from the blow of not having something tangible to show for his sacrifice and valour, he longed to rise above everything and be a part of a great nation that would be the envy of all Europe.

He will be a part of an empire he dreamed would be as mighty as the Holy Roman Empire in its glory years. There was nothing to do now but place his trust on his emperor and hope that this time, France will succeed.

With renewed vigour, Francis Bonnefoy increased his pace and pushed through the palace's huge oaken doors.

* * *

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Waterloo**

_02: Camaraderie_

* * *

"They're early."

Ludwig looked up from his book, eyes wide with surprise. With a loud sound, he threw it on the table and stood up. "I… I should prepare…" He said absently, alarm numbing his thoughts. "I should –"

It wasn't until a stinging pain erupted from his left cheek that he finally focused. He was sprawled on the floor in his pyjamas, looking up at the distinctly arrogant features of his brother. It was then he knew he had been hit. The throbbing on his face was a well-placed punch aimed to wake him up, no doubt.

"I didn't raise you to be like this." His brother gazed at him pointedly, eyes boring into his, smouldering with fire. "Face the enemy head on. There is no use for cowards on the battlefield."

There was a long moment of silence before Ludwig took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he hung his head in apology. "I'm not a coward." He murmured softly. "I just don't want to see friends in arms die over and over again."

There was a shuffling noise and a sound sigh before he felt a strong hand raking back the short yellow strands before settling warmly on his head. Even now, he could feel the calluses forged by years of tenacious hard work and endless crusades. He suddenly felt the urge to cry, but fought the tears back.

His eyes snapped open and he found himself face to face with sharp knowing eyes. He could feel his breath blowing softly on his face. "West." His brother breathed, a small indulgent smile twisting his supercilious lips. "We are fighting for a cause, and that cause is the reason why we exist. We die for our cause, we die for our country, we die with honour, and we die for those who come after us."

"Gil…"

The urge to cry resurfaced as Gilbert Beilschmidt leaned forward on his toes, balanced himself with one hand on Ludwig's knee, and kissed him on the forehead. "This is a war. We are fighting on different fronts, as dictated by our commanders in chief, but we have one goal. Whether we win or lose, whether we scratch the surface of it, will only be decided if we live." In one fluid motion, he stood up, holding out a pale white hand to him. "We will live, West. Do not ever doubt that."

Ludwig stared at the outstretched hand, eyes tracing the curves of his fingernails. _Live._ He thought. _The goal is to live_.

With renewed resolve, he allowed a small smile and reached out.

He took his brother's hand.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Waterloo**

_03: Strategy_

* * *

The English Squares were living up to its name.

He was exhausted. All he wanted was a drink of water and that was it. But who was he to take a few moments of rest when his commander in chief hadn't even slept a wink since last night?

"What time is it?"

The question jolted him out of his restlessness. The Duke of Wellington's tone was level, thoughtful... and very calm. This intrigued him, he wanted to ask why he was being calm when his troops were falling one by one, but he held his tongue. He was in the battlefield. There was no point raising such trivial matters.

"Twenty past four." Lieutenant-Colonel Stanhope answered him with a slight tremble to his voice. Arthur knew exactly how he felt. The stench of death and the metallic zing of blood were invading his senses like a barrage of artillery since the fighting started. A bullet grazed his arm and his cheek was bruised from an encounter with the French cavalier earlier. This was, as any other war, hell.

"Hmm." The Duke murmured, eyes trained at the fighting before him, watching, unruffled, as the enemy's cavaliers entered the gaps of the squares on their way to slaughter. "The battle is mine..."

Arthur could hear the deafening sound of muskets being fired and flesh being torn by blades corroded by blood.

"… And when the Prussians arrive, this war will end."

At the other side, a few metres beyond the squares, the German army stood, fighting. He could see a familiar face in the crowd. The Kraut was fighting with all he had. The other allies were doing their part as well. But compared to how they were faring, he was lucky he was with a great tactician. He took a deep breath and almost choked as the acrid smell of carnage entered his lungs.

Where was the Prussian army? They were uncharacteristically late. He wanted to go to the German line and shake the information out of the Kraut, but seeing that the latter was doing his best to stay alive, there was a huge chance he didn't know what was happening to the other country's line as well.

Arthur gritted his teeth.

The war was not ending anytime soon.

* * *

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Waterloo**

_04: Paramount_

* * *

"Why the hell does it have to rain _**today**_?" Gilbert Weillschmidt groused as he lunged forward and stabbed the horse of a French cavalier.

"I don't know!" Answered the army's vice-commander, his voice soaring above the noise of combat. "I'm not God!"

"I wasn't talking to you!" He called back in irritation, slashing another soldier, warm blood spurting onto him. Grimacing, he spat on the dead body, ridding his tongue of the metallic-tasting droplets that managed to enter his mouth. "Shut up! I was talking to myself!"

"Keep your thoughts to yourself then!" The army's chief, Field Marshall Blucher growled from the other side, just as irritated.

Gilbert cried out in frustration and started another round of attack.

Hack. Slash. Pound.

This was becoming repetitive. A gruesome routine of sorts. It disturbed him in some ways, but he knew he had to get used to this or he would lose – and losing meant dying. He didn't want to die, not when he made a promise to his younger brother that he would return home alive – that they both would.

He gritted his teeth.

The best of the French soldiers were sent to engage them in combat. There were pitfalls on being part of the best army in Europe, it seemed. It was only fair that they get to fight the best after all. Still, it wouldn't hurt to face a much weaker enemy for a change. This was far from Prussia's campaigns against Austria and Hungary. And frankly, this was nothing if only they had more time to prepare.

He hated surprise attacks most of all.

The French closed in on Ligny a day early. They had to pull back for a while because of it. But this was not the Great Prussian Army for nothing. They were now gaining ground. Rapidly too, if he may add.

Still, he could see the exhaustion on the faces of some of his comrades. On the battlefield, a face of exhaustion showed the face of death. The inexperienced ones, those who were part of the infantry that survived the first surge of France's attack were slowly tiring out. And the veterans had to save their asses often just so their numbers wouldn't dwindle too much.

Not that it mattered.

He looked up from his opponent's decapitated body in time to see the chief raising the Prussian flag up the air and crying out, his voice ringing loud and clear.

" **FOR THE GLORY OF THE KINGDOM!** "

Feeling as if he was zapped by lightning, Gilbert growled and leaped on an abandoned horse that was neighing in terror at the surrounding melee. The white stallion bucked twice, nearly unseating him before finally calming down as he pulled on the reins with as much control as he could muster.

A huge grin stretched his lips, his eyes twin pits of blazing fire. He raised his sword wet and dripping with blood and rain in answer.

" **PRESS FORWARD!** "

He was going home soon, he swore.

_I'm coming! Wait for me, West!_

* * *

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Waterloo**

_05: Lost_

* * *

Francis felt numb.

The people he had been eating dinner with weeks ago lay dead before him. The direct combat was put off after suffering a great loss against the allied forces, especially to England. The English Squares were long gone and they retreated behind the ridge, almost out of sight. The only way to do damage without getting close was through artillery.

Even now, he could feel that something was wrong. He was not sure, but there was a huge possibility that this was another tactic.

They were too quiet. There was no retaliation, and knowing that England was part of the allied forces, it made no sense.

Maybe it was true, what his superiors said – that even with only less than a half of a hundred and five thousand troops (The rest were sent to Ligny days ago), they were actually winning.

Were they really?

Emperor Napoleon instructed them earlier that it was time to crush the remaining forces before them. He said the Prussians were defeated and the rest of the victorious French army were coming back to lend a hand. There was nothing to suggest otherwise.

Their emperor wouldn't lie to them, would he?

He swallowed and took a deep cleansing breath. The air smelled and tasted of decay, but all of this would be worth it if they emerge victorious.

"I can't wait to go home to my family and share with them the good news." A brother-in-arms murmured quietly.

A surge of pain washed over Francis as he smiled and nodded. "Me too." He replied, wondering why there was an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as they prepared to fight. The question of why they, the Imperial Guards, had to take part in this when they were supposed to be close to winning this war resurfaced.

He had to quash it down once again.

 _Have faith_. He told himself for the hundredth time. _Everything will be alright_.

"Vive l'Empereur!" He heard one of his superiors cry out with his gleaming sword raised – a signal of attack.

"Vive l'Empereur!" Francis answered back, along with the rest of the emperor's army. He drew his sword and urged his horse forward.

He could hear the beating of drums in the distance. It was catching up with them as they advanced more than halfway to enemy lines. An audible sigh of relief washed over them.

Reinforcements.

He glanced back in an effort to gather more courage and noticed some of the others did the same. He pulled the reins of his horse and stared, dumbfounded.

The drums weren't playing the French hymn.

The blue of the uniforms approaching them from behind were not the same shade as their own. The flag being flown was not theirs. His eye caught the particularly bloodthirsty gaze of one of the people riding up front.

They were not reinforcements.

" **CRUSH THEM!** "

"Prussians!" The horrified cry started from the back of the French line. "The Prussians are here!"

" **GUARDS, GET UP AND CHARGE!"** Came the unmistakable sound of the Duke of Wellington's voice. Allied forces were dead set on meeting them up front, their bayonets ready to strike.

At that moment, he knew that they weren't sent here to crush the enemy – they were mere sacrificial lambs to aide the emperor's escape. There was nothing left to do but face his fate. He was going to finish this… he was going to fight.

Even if France already lost.

 _For the glory of the Kingdom_.

* * *

**ENDE**

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER/S: The Axis Powers Hetalia series isn't mine. All credit goes to Himaruya Hidekazu. I can only stake claim on this fic and the original characters (If any) created for the sake of the plot (if any).
> 
> NOTE: There may be references to history… and as we all know texts vary from one country to another, depending mostly on their point of view. So no bashing, I hope. After all, this is just a work of fiction.


End file.
